Work It Girl!
by BreakingFable
Summary: When WWE makes a deal with GQ magazine for one of their wrestlers to represent them on the cover, the battle is on in the locker room to see who will be the lucky model. Who will be chosen? What shenanigans will occur in the meantime? Jeff / Matt Hardy
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Okay, boys and girls, this one's another collaboration with the ever-excellent Onions! I must confess that I have always wanted to write a story where the fashion world collides with the WWE. Don't ask me why; I suppose it's just a side-effect of my mental illness. :) Anyway, this little tale will basically tell the following hypothetical story: GQ does a cover story on the WWE, choosing from amongst all the wrestlers on the roster one cover model for the final issue. Hilarity ensues. **

**As always, WWE owns all (except Jeff Hardy, who owns himself), we own nothing.**

Vincent Kennedy McMahon was a leviathan in the wrestling industry. A juggernaut. He was a muscle-ridden, wealth-burdened god.

He had a very large penis, by his own measure.

There were very few areas left that he had not already conquered.

Vince sat at his highly-polished wooden desk, carefully regarding a thin, very attractive, straight-backed woman in her middle years. He considered that he would have no chance at conquering her, not in a million years. The very thought of even possibly getting that one near his bed made him grin stupidly, a tiny dribble of drool wetting his cracked lips.

Her brows drew down in annoyance as she watched his change of expression, and she cleared her throat loudly, hoping he would understand this not-so-subtle hint to move things along.

"I am a very busy woman, Mr. McMahon", she said, "Can we please get to the point of this meeting?"

McMahon smiled wolfishly. "Of course, Katarina. Whatever you want." She rolled her eyes. McMahon shifted uncomfortably in his leather-upholstered chair when he noted her annoyance. A loud and distinct farting noise from the friction of his ass on the chair rang out clearly and distinctly in the quiet room. The woman's eyes widened.

"Sorry", muttered McMahon sheepishly, "it was the damn chair."

She released an angry puff of air, raising one impeccably-groomed eyebrow. "Let us get to it, then", she said, "We have a mutual interest in the possibility of showcasing your company in my magazine."

Vince nodded his head excitedly.

"Well, then", she said, a cold smirk coming to her porcelain features, "We shall discuss terms."

Vince grinned back at her. Negotiating terms was his favorite thing to do. Katarina was one tough customer, but he preferred it that way. This would be fun.

Yup, his wrestlers would be prancing around in front of her cameras in no time. He shifted again, being careful to silence the farting chair as he did so.

It let out a poof anyway.

He had to call Stephanie. She always got him the best office stuff. It was time for a god damn replacement.

* * * * * * *

"So, whaddya think, guys?", Matt asked excitedly, gesturing proudly down to the prototype for his new wrestling pants.

Jeff, Adam, Jay, Hunter, and the Undertaker all stood watching the giddy Hardy boy, their expressions ranging from amusement to full-on horror. Matt didn't seem to notice, or to care, about their reactions, however. He seemed proud of his new outfit, which he had conceived entirely himself.

Matt's grand design idea began with red and white checkered fabric, similar in appearance to a Walmart-bought picnic tablecloth. Sewn into the knees were stark, bright yellow patches, the color of fresh urine. On the upper part of each outer thigh, tassles made of lime-green rubber hung freely. Matt liked how they struck his butt and balls when he walked. There were obvious squares of padding sewn into each cheek of the buttocks, to give the older Hardy the rounder, fuller ass he'd always desired. In truth, it simply made him look fat.

The boots were the piece de resistance of the entire affair, with shiny red pleather, and lime-green polka dots scattered all about their surface. White laces finished off the affair, criss-crossing up from ankle to knee.

The group stared as Matt excitedly pointed out stand-out features of his new look. Edge stood, mouth agape, large eyes even wider than normal, feeling dizzy and sick from the clashing colors in Matt's garish new outfit. If Hardy didn't stop moving around, he might not be able to stop himself from blowing chunks all over his brand new threads!

Christian exchanged a concerned look with Jeff, wondering if Matt had finally lost his mind. The younger Hardy, however, appeared used to it.

Hunter thought Matt's sense of fashionable ring attire was hilarious. He practically shit himself, he laughed so hard.

Taker couldn't have given a shit about any of this. As Matt prattled on, he picked at a stubborn wedgie that had been plaguing him for the past hour and a half.

Jeff shook his head in utter embarrassment, refusing to watch anymore.

When no one said anything, Matt prodded, "Well, come on guys, what do you think?" Silence. "I think these colors'll really pop on TV!"

"It looks like ya popped 'em right out of your ass", Taker muttered under his breath.

Matt turned to his brother, shivering happily when one of the tassles rubbed up against his taint. "Jeff?", he asked, a hopeful tone in his normally stoic voice.

Jeff shook his head. "Your pants look like ass, Matty", he said, "They look like they were designed by blind, retarded monkeys."

"Oooooh, damn, Jeff!", said Edge, who was leaning heavily on Jay to prevent his vertigo from overtaking him.

A small tear fell down the older Hardy's smooth cheek.

"I'm sorry, Matty", said Jeff, "I just don't want you to embarrass yourself."

"Well, FUCK YOU!", Matt cried, "I'm wearing these on TV tonight! And I'll bet you the fans will fucking love them!"

With that, he stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

"Thank god", growled Taker, "Can I leave now?"

Hunter raised a fuzzy blonde eyebrow. "Why the hell are you here anyway?"

"Good point", Taker replied. He was already out the door.

Jeff, meanwhile, was tearing at his colorful hair, frustration evident on his face.

"Guys", he pleaded, "you've gotta help me with him! He can't go out there wearing that abomination. They'll laugh him out of the state!"

Hunter shrugged. "Sorry, Jeffro. I just don't care enough to get involved. Thanks for the entertainment, though."

He patted the younger man on the shoulder, and walked away, chuckling.

Jeff looked to Adam and Jay, wild desperation in his eyes.

"Uh, um, yeah, I think we're due in the gym", stammered Jay, backing towards the door.

Adam nearly tripped over his Canadian buddy in his haste to reach the exit. "Uh, yeah, Jeff, sorry, but I think you're on your own. Good luck!"

The door closed, leaving Jeff alone with his dark and terrible thoughts.

If Matt truly had made up his mind to wear his clownish pants on television that night, Jeff didn't think there was anything he could do to stop him. He knew he had to try, though.

He made his way slowly and dejectedly out of the room.

The younger Hardy sighed. He wished his brother wasn't such a tool.

* * * * * * *

Matt walked with determination towards the gorilla position, an angry scowl set upon his face. He ignored the stares of his co-workers, keeping his gaze firmly ahead.

"Fabulous pants, Hardy!", Hornswoggle called, snickering. The little man sat casually perched on top of a crate of athletic supporters.

"Fuck you, leprechaun!", Matt shot back, flipping him the bird as he passed.

He ignored the snickers and whispered jibes that met his ears as he moved through the backstage area. He concentrated on the caress of the rubber tassles on his ball sac, and thought about his impending glory.

"Matt! Matt, wait!" Jeff ran down the long hall, huffing and puffing, trying desperately to catch up with his brother. Matt didn't slow. "God dammit Matt, wait up!" The younger Hardy finally managed to reach him. "Big bro, please don't go out there!", Jeff pleaded, tears in his eyes, " The audience won't… won't understand what you are trying to portray!" He paused for dramatic effect, ignoring Matt's glare. "I get it! I understand, as _I_ am an artist. But _they_ are cruel and fickle. That audience will eat you alive!"

Matt hunkered down, preparing himself for his glorious entrance. The producer gave him the 5 second warning, and he heard his music hit out in the arena. The older Hardy looked peacefully over at his brother and said, "Jeff, I appreciate your concern, but…" He turned towards the ramp and began to run. "I've got to be MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!"

He disappeared through the curtain, and into the packed house.

Matt felt the rush of heat from the lights, and stank breath from the audience. He pumped his fist to the beat of his music, pausing at the top of the ramp, tassles swinging back and forth.

A great hush fell over the arena.

"HOO HOO!", an Arkansas-accented drunk suddenly yelled from deep within the crowd, "MATT HARDY'S GONE GAY!!!!"

Laughter erupted throughout the arena. Matt stood still, his toothy grin quickly fading. One single tear fell slowly down his cheek, much like the Native American who told us not to litter in that commercial. It was a sad sight to behold.

That night, after his match, he destroyed the pants he'd earlier been so proud of. He was sad, but he knew he'd be able to make himself feel better by sucking down a shitload of alcohol.

While sitting in a bar, he pulled out his phone and began to tweet, feeling the need to unburden himself.

_I destroyed my pants, everyone. Are you fucking happy?_

1:11am From Mobile Phone

_Jeff just farted._

1:34am From Mobile Phone

_Damn, I look good! - __/jk1fx_

1:48am From Mobile Phone

_Ballin'!_

1:50am From Mobile Phone

_Jeff's getting annoyed. He wants to go home. I want more beeer._

2:01am From Mobile Phone

_Think I lehft something stale in the shitter. Ooops. HA!_

2:11am From Mobile Phone

_Hey, HurricaneHelms KimoBrand… you lyked my pants, right?!_

2:21am From Mobile Phone

_I just tryed to pick uhp a girl, but sheee told mi to fuck off. Shee was uhgly anyway._

2:46am From Mobile Phone

_Jeff lehft me behind. Heee's asshole._

3:15am From Mobile Phone

_Y'all hate mee. Y hate mmi pants,_

4:01am From Mobile Phone

The next evening, Matt woke up. The first thing he did was throw up. The next thing he did was throw up.

When he remembered his deceased fashion experiment he wept.

The pants had been innocent. They hadn't deserved to die.

**This story will be a carnival of retardedness! Wrestlers fighting for the chance to pose on the cover of GQ magazine. What else could one ask for in a fanfic? (Besides an intelligent plot, well thought-out characterization, and readability, that is.) I can promise you none of these things in this story. So, if you're not scared off yet, read on! The fun is only beginning! ;)**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Hey, everybody! Welcome to chapter 2 of Work It Girl! The first chapter was just a warm-up. This is where the chaos will truly take over.**

**This chapter is going to include a special treat. **_**The wrestlers are going to be photographed, so Onions and I have included drawings as a companion to this, showing what the photos would look like. You'll find links on my profile page. Check 'em out!**_

**Now, to respond to some kind reviews. Seraphalexiel, we both nearly our peed our pants at the "retarded giraffe" comment. Good times. But, I have to admit, the thought of Vince's wang kind of ruins the mood. Golden-Black Dragon, yeah, the pants were nuts. In the end, they needed to be destroyed. But hopefully, in their wake, Matt will create something even more obnoxiously awesome…. Slashdlite, thanks! Glad you liked it! ;)**

**Now, here we go. Guys, remember to check out the link above. And, as always, the WWE owns all (except Jeff Hardy, who owns himself), I own nothing. **

"SHUT THE FUCK UP, MEATHEADS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!", Mr. McMahon screamed at the top of his lungs, his veins bulging prominently out of his thick, over-tanned neck.

The scattered conversations around the locker room quieted.

"-_do_ like briefs", said one lone voice, ringing out over the now-silent assemblage, "but boxers offer more room for my sac, ya kno-?" Rey Mysterio's discourse on underwear came to an abrupt halt as he suddenly realized that no one else in the room was speaking. Beneath the mask he wore to cover his face, his cheeks reddened in embarassment.

Ignoring this blatant display of stupidity, Vince began to speak. "We have an opportunity before us", he began, his tone weighty, "This is an opportunity that, if used correctly, will benefit the WWE, and consequently, all who work for it. We actually may be seen as _legitimate_ entertainment, if this is successful." The chairman smiled wistfully at the thought. "We'll be just like CNN, or Regis and Kathy Lee."

"What the hell are you going on about, Vince?", asked Hunter, sounding bored. He scratched his balls as he spoke.

"The editors of GQ have offered us the rare opportunity to feature the WWE in the pages of their magazine. Now, I know most of you couldn't care less about this sort of thing, as it normally doesn't affect you. We usually pick Cena or Triple H to represent us in top magazine cover shoots. However, this article is going to be different."

The wrestlers began to look at each other, confused.

Vince continued. "When I spoke to the editor from GQ, she said she wanted _any_ wrestler on the roster to be eligible to try out."

Excited whispers suddenly broke out all over the room.

Jericho raised his hand and waited for McMahon to call on him.

Vince rolled his eyes and acknowledged Y2J.

"Vince, I assume this is only open to the male wrestlers? Or are Beth Phoenix and Rosa Mendes gonna have a shot, as they rightfully should? I mean, they _are _she-males, right?" The Canadian superstar sat back in his chair, his trademark smirk painted firmly on his face.

"No Chris", McMahon replied dryly, "Only the _men_ will have a shot at this. Now are there going to be any _intelligent_ questions from anyone, or should I stop wasting my time?"

Cody raised his hand with conviction.

"Yes, Rhodes?"

"Um, can I go to the bathroom?" The diminutive wrestler shifted in his seat.

Vince looked like he was going to destroy something. "Yes", he muttered darkly, "Get out. Now."

Cody stood, and anyone who cared to look would be able to see a wet spot forming on the front of his short shorts. He slowly and carefully made his way out of the locker room, and towards the little boys' room. Ted trailed dutifully behind him.

"Alright!", said McMahon, clapping his meaty hands together, "This is how it's gonna work. Tomorrow afternoon, the folks from GQ are gonna come in with their cameras to take some test shots of anyone who's interested in putting in for this. To make this clear, if you are chosen, you'll be on the cover of GQ two months from now. You will also be interviewed for an article they're running, and you're going to be photographed for a 6-page spread inside the magazine. Keep all of this in mind before you sign up. And if you've decided you _are_ going through with it, I'd suggest you come to the arena looking your best tomorrow. Do NOT embarrass me, god dammit!" He stared around the room, eyes narrowed, as if trying to search out the lumpy mess who would humiliate both him and his company in front of the GQ higher-ups tomorrow.

Shane stepped up. "We put forward that anyone who happens to be overweight or currently with mullet needn't apply."

Vince nodded. "That's right! And that eliminates a bunch of you fat bastards, so don't think I'll let you slip by me!" Ignoring the groans he got in response to this news, Vince continued. "Now, if you wanna sign up for tomorrow's photo shoot, write your name on this sheet of paper, and we'll see what happens." He taped a piece of paper to the locker room wall.

During all of this, Matt was bursting with excitement that he could barely contain. This was it. This was his magical moment! After all these years, he would finally get his GQ cover!

He glanced over at Jeff, who was asleep, his head falling limply over the back of the chair. Christ! How could anyone sleep at a time like this? Oh well, he thought with a smirk, it would be less competition for him.

"Now go pretty up, mongoloids!", Vince cried, "Make your chairman proud!"

After the McMahons left, Matt sat next to his snoring brother, watching a few of the others sign up. Jericho, Punk, Shawn Michaels, Triple H, John Morrison. Big Show walked towards the paper next. "What the fuck are you thinking, fat ass?", said Chavo, grabbing the big man's arm, "Didn't you hear Shane? No big boys allowed!"

Big Show glared at the smaller man, but walked away without saying anything in return. The whole locker room knew that messing with Chavo was suicide. Besides, he didn't need to sign the list. He had other ways of getting in.

Matt, in the meantime, had been scrutinizing his competition. Cena had signed the list just before both members of Legacy, and their leader. Formidable competition indeed. Matt grimaced as he watched the muscle-bound trio walk away. He would have to put extra thought into his look for the shoot, and find something that was both flattering to his shape and appealing to look at.

After the crowd around the sign-up sheet finally thinned, Matt walked up and quickly wrote down his name. He stared at it, smiling lovingly.

This was his first step to glory.

* * * * * * *

The next day, Katarina Sims, the editor from GQ, marched into the arena with a small contingent of photographers and lighting people. As had been previously arranged, they began to set up in the now-empty catering hall. They were quick and efficient, and, before much time had passed, they had everything set.

"Good morning, Katarina!" Vince's rough, grating voice rang out through the room, which smelled of old tater tots and fish sticks.

The lithe woman stiffened when he spoke, turning slowly to face him. A tight smile was painted upon her thin lips. "Hello, Vince. We'll be ready shortly." She then turned away, quietly issuing orders to two lighting technicians as she watched them make some last-minute adjustments.

The chairman nodded. "I'll let everyone know to get their asses in gear." He looked at the professional backdrop and expensive cameras that the GQ team had brought in, marveling at his luck in securing this booking. If his wrestlers didn't act like assholes and utter morons, there was a chance this could really work out. He could get positive publicity for once. The thought made him grin like a Christmas elf who had just gotten his tiny taint waxed.

Vince walked back into the hallway and looked down the row of wrestlers waiting to be photographed. Some, like his son Shane and Matt Hardy, were pacing back and forth restlessly, like mice in a blender. Others, such as The Undertaker and Randy Orton were leaning casually against the wall, as if they couldn't have cared less about the entire affair.

The Chairman stared in horror at the pack of tards lining the hallway and suddenly felt a bit sick to his stomach. He walked briskly towards his office, pulling out his cell phone. After witnessing the tasteless array of "camera-ready" outfits his dear mongoloids had pulled together, he had to bring in a ringer.

* * * * * * *

John Cena, dressed in his trademark denim shorts, took his spot in front of the green screen backdrop, flexing his pec muscles up and down as he waited for further instructions from the photographer. He was completely at ease in front of the lens, and was happy to volunteer to go first.

"That's a nice belt you've got on," remarked the Swedish-born photographer named Sven. His tone was not particularly complimentary.

"Thanks, man," Cena replied proudly. "My grandmammy knitted it for me. It's an _exact replica_ of the WWE belt! Really awesome, yeah?"

Sven was silent and continued shooting the first round of pictures. Someone in the room farted.

It was probably Cena.

**(From BreakingFable and Onions: you can view Cena's best photo at the link on my profile page…)**

* * * * * * *

"Yes! Yes!" shrieked Sven to the buff, yet vacant meathead posing in front of him.

Randy Orton stared sourly into the camera, holding the WWE title belt aloft. He was donned in his traditional black wrestling undies, and nothing else, much to Sven's delight.

"Move to the right a bit, babes," said Sven, smiling happily.

Orton shifted stiffly, his scowl unchanged, his pose the same.

"Let's get a full length shot now, hon." Sven looked the fine specimen up and down, humming softly to himself. A few shots later, he abruptly stopped and tersely told his subject they were done. Orton smirked and walked slowly out of the room.

Sven marveled – he had seen some butterfaces in his time, but never a butter_foot_! That Orton boy had some fucked up toes!

**(From BreakingFable and Onions: wanna see Orton's toes? Check out the link on my profile page!)**

* * * * * * *

Sven was trying not to vomit as he photographed a kid named Cody Rhodes. The young blumpkin was dressed in a Borat-style swimsuit, a pair of bobo sneakers on his small feet. The suit looked like a ripped pair of neon pantyhose that were stretched from the taint, over the balls, up over the shoulders and back down through the buttcrack. Frightening, even for someone like Sven who had been to Amsterdam's gay district 34 times.

Cody twitched uncomfortably, trying to dislodge fabric from his crack. His self-sewn outfit was way too tight in all the wrong places. Even so, he was determined to get the GQ cover, so he bent his knees and squatted down until the fabric relinquished its hold on his balls. This was the pose that would make him the winner!

Sven was amazed that a professional wrestler could have the legs of a fifteen year old girl.

Odd.

**(From BreakingFable and Onions: I **_**know**_** you wanna see Cody's humiliation, so take a look at the link on my profile page!)**

* * * * * * *

Ted Dibiase's life for the past few weeks had been nothing but promo for The Marine 2. Vince had him doing meet-and-greets and interviews about the movie almost non-stop. Ted wanted to dress like a sexy vampire for the photoshoot, like the guys in Twilight, but Vince was forcing him to dress appropriately to promote the film. He hated The Marine 2!

Sven's eyes widened as the next wrester walked in, wearing full army fatigues, brandishing a plastic yellow machine gun, and sporting a propeller beanie on his goofy head. The words, "The Marine 2" were emblazoned down his subject's left pant leg, and shiny combat boots completed the look.

"Ok," Sven said, attempting to make the best of it. "Now give me your best Army yell!"

"Hizzah!" screamed Dibiase, inadvertently squirting some pee down his leg, as he gave it all he had. McMahon wouldn't be pleased that he pissed on the rented pants, but it served him right. If he had let him dress like Team Edward in the first place, this never would have happened.

**(From BreakingFable and You-Know-Who, come see Ted being an idiot! Check out the link!)**

* * * * * * *

Triple H and Stephanie were very friendly with the young Hollywood set. Lindsay, Paris, Britney and, most recently, Lady Gaga, had all been to dinners and parties at their Connecticut home. Actors and rock stars had a long love affair with the WWE, and the new generation of McMahons was determined to milk that teet for all it was worth.

It was through their latest unlikely connection with the music industry, that a glorious fashion turd was conceived.

Triple H lumbered into the room, nearly too wide to fit through the doors. The "outfit" that Lady Gaga had designed and later built for him was basically a giant, purple, plastic, upside-down triangle, with arm and leg holes. "G A G A" was splashed in huge yellow letters across the front. Triple H's wrists and ankles were adorned with blue and orange bubble rings, much like the inflatable swimmies little kids wore in the grown-up pool.

Sven rolled his eyes. Not another Gaga outfit. That bitch couldn't design her way out of a paper bag.

Triple H stood in a Jesus Christ pose, not because he thought he was the savior (although he _did_ think that), but because the poorly-crafted costume would not allow him to lower his arms.

The superstar smirked and reveled in the "snap-clicks" of the camera. Even in a plastic purple triangle, he looked hot!

Sven was beginning to wonder if these were professional wrestlers from the most famous sports entertainment company in the world, or a school for mentally challenged children with hormonal and thyroid issues.

**(From BreakingFable and Onions… you'll have to see it to believe it, but we do indeed have evidence of HHH in Lady Gaga wear. CHECK OUT THIS LINK!!!)**

* * * * * * *

"Hello??!" Sven called out to the scantily-clad man kneeling on the other side of the room. "Are you ready to begin?"

Shawn Michaels was on his knees, head bowed, hands clasped together in prayer. He pleaded silently to his best friend and confidant, The Lord Jesus Christ. "Please Lord, give me the strength to have a really awesome photoshoot and make it onto the cover of GQ Magazine to help you spread the word."

HBK honestly thought "GQ" stood for "God's Quarterly." He was a bit sheltered.

As the pious man made his way over, Sven almost wished he hadn't summoned him. His subject was dressed in nothing but a thin swath of black cloth that ran from his neck to his feet, widening as it neared the floor. Another piece of fabric stretched around his ribcage, fastening it in place. His genitals were barely covered.

Sven grew extremely nervous as the wrestler bent his legs in preparation for his first pose. "This is a PG shoot, yes?" the photographer gently reminded him.

Sven would be glad when this day was over.

**(From Us, well, you know what to do.)**

* * * * * * *

"How about you smile for me, ya?", Sven said nervously, looking up at the tall and ominous man standing on set.

The Undertaker scowled back at him. He raised his muscled arm and flipped the Swedish man the bird before stalking silently out.

Sven watched him go. He'd been happy to get one shot off. All told, it had probably been the best picture he'd gotten so far.

He sighed heavily, waiting for the next muscle-bound retard to walk in.

Really, they did not pay him enough for this.

**(From the Folks who wrote the story, Undertaker owns! Check out his rad picture on my profile page!)**

* * * * * * *

Shane McMahon loved Superman. Maybe he loved him a little _too_ much.

Superman, as he saw it, was the most handsome, debonair, and badass man in the entire universe. Therefore, it only made sense that he should dress like him.

Shane had felt the need to use body paint in order to properly recreate the superhero's costume, as muscles simply did not stick out of fabric the way they did in comics. He would show his body off, and he would look damn good doing it, too. Dad would be so proud!

He had painted himself in solid blue, from the chest down to the knees. Over this, he wore a red Speedo, which was barely managing to cover his balls at the moment. He'd found an old pair of red wrestling boots in wardrobe, though they were two sizes too large for him. Around his neck, he wore a very short, red cape, which hung down to his lower back.

"And just what the hell are you supposed to be?", said Sven as he entered. The Swedish man's heavily-accented voice was thick with exhaustion.

"I", Shane replied importantly, "am Vice President of the WWE." He raised his chin up, proud to be displaying his moronic garb.

Sven rubbed at a spot between his eyes, trying to stave off a headache. "I see. Well, shall we get this over with, Mr. President?"

Shane strode towards the set, his too-short cape billowing out behind him. As he walked, the friction from his meaty thighs rubbing together caused Little Shane to wake up. By the time he was in position, the Chairman's son had a full tent sticking out of his speedo undies.

He nonchalantly crossed his hands in front of the offending area, hoping to hide the state of his wiener.

Sven smiled to himself as he focused in on the painted meathead's stiffie. He took a few rapid shots, before crisply announcing that he was finished. Shane took a bow and left.

The photographer ignored him. He flipped back through the last pictures on his digital camera, smirking.

"Ya", he thought, "those last shots will go into my _personal_ collection."

**(From The Two of Us, peep in on Shane's little shoot by checking out the profile page!)**

* * * * * * *

Matt Hardy bounced nervously on the balls of his feet, staring intensely at the closed door of the catering hall. When the hell were they going to let him in?! He was freaking out.

Suddenly, the double doors opened, and Shane McMahon's flabby painted form walked through, his hands crossed firmly over his crotch. The yuppie goon paused for a moment to look Matt up and down, a forced expression of intimidation upon his idiotic features. He growled, baring his teeth in a snarl. Matt was the enemy. He must frighten him into submission, like his father had always taught him.

Matt stared back, one eyebrow raised in bemusement. Was Shane actually _growling _at him? "Fuck off, McMahon", he said, laughing. He let out a wet, loud, and completely obnoxious fart to punctuate the dismissal.

Shane stopped growling, and sighed. Oh, well. At least he knew that he'd _owned_ that photo shoot. How could the GQ people not pick him? He shuffled silently away, hands held firmly over his crotch.

Matt took a deep breath as he entered the catering hall. He smiled happily, enjoying the scents that assaulted his nostrils. "_Salisbury steak_", he thought to himself blissfully, "_Tacos. Fish…"_

"Matt Hardy?", a sharp voice interrupted his pleasant thoughts, bringing him forcibly back to reality. He looked, and saw that the speaker was an impeccably-dressed woman in her middle years, who was staring at him as if he was a homeless vagrant that had just wandered into her mansion. "Katarina Sims, Editor of GQ. Stand over here, please", she said coldly, gesturing to a small set they'd put up.

He moved excitedly over to where she pointed, trying to keep his emotions in check. He knew he looked good. He'd dressed for success today, knowing he couldn't go wrong if he just believed in himself. His fans always told him he was sexy. Why wouldn't he be able to live his dream, and grace the cover of GQ? He certainly had a better chance than some of the other morons out there in the hallway.

Silent pep talk completed, he stood facing the photographer, ready to start.

Sven, on the hand, was still trying to get his bearings. How did one shoot someone who looked like… that? He pretended to fiddle with his camera, glancing up every now and then at the overly-confident man standing before him. Who dressed these people? Really? Was this a joke?

Matt was wearing too-tight pleather pants, which rode low on his hips and allowed his significant gut to hang over the top. A very, very tight mesh top barely managed to cover any of his torso. The aforementioned gut hung out of the bottom of the shirt, almost giving him a pregnant look. Not a thing on the man was flattering. Sven almost felt sorry for him.

The harried photographer loudly cleared his throat. "Alright", he said, "Why don't we get a few shots of you in a natural pose? Just look as you would normally. Nothing fancy."

As he spoke, Sven began to shoot. The moment Matt saw a camera flash, he instinctively raised his hand and proudly displayed the "V1" sign.

Sven stopped shooting. "What is that?", he asked, pointing to Matt's hand.

"V1", Matt replied happily, "I'm the Sensei of Mattitude!"

"Jesus Christ", muttered Sven under his breath.

Ten minutes later, the Swedish photographer was at the end of his rope. He had directed Matt to assume numerous stances, even going so far as to pose him himself. Always, the V1 hand would end up in the shot. Matt said he couldn't help it. It was his reaction to the camera. He'd been posing that way for years.

"WWE never had a problem with it", Matt said, crossing his arms defensively.

Sven chose not to respond to that. He wouldn't tell him how obvious it was that WWE was peopled solely with morons, tools, and incompetents. He also wouldn't tell him that he looked like an oversized sausage stuffed into an undersized wrapper.

He didn't, after all, want to destroy the man's illusions of grandeur.

**(From BF & O, to see Matt's faux-pregnant belly, as well as his best shot, go to the link! You won't be disappointed!)**

**There will be more photo shoots in the upcoming chapter. Who else will be in the hot seat? And, I wonder who Vince's "ringer" will be? Keep reading to find out! Oh, and Onions and I LOVE reviews, so send 'em on over, please and thank you! :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Okay, so here we are again. Onions and I finally managed to finish the next chapter of this collaboration. Sorry it took so long to get it out, but there were drawings to complete, and other things to deal with along the way. Just a note: the Big Show drawing is a tiny bit messed up. It was creased in the scanner. But, c'est la vie.**

**Anyway, thanks to all of you who reviewed! Slashdlite, thanks for reading, as always. You'll find out this chapter if your guesses were right. :) InsanityPrevails, thanks! This is what happens when Onions and I get bored… Hardy-Hennigan-Hickenbottom, much obliged! :) Seraphalexiel, yeah, we do our best to torture the photographer in this one. :) ROFL, gentleMAN's magazine, Legacy piss… You are too much. Baybie, glad we could bring a bit of maniacal laughter into your day. Thanks for reading! :)**

**As always, the WWE owns all (except for Jeff Hardy who, as we all know, is now owned by TNA). Onions and I own nothing. (Seriously, Vince, we're both pretty destitute, so trying to sue us would be utterly useless, and a waste of time on your part.)**

Morning passed into afternoon at the arena, and mongoloid after mongoloid continued to soil Sven's set. The Swedish photographer was growing more and more agitated by the second, and Katerina, the editor, was beginning to openly drink from a bottle of Jack Daniels in the back corner of the catering hall.

It would have been an understatement to say that things were not going well.

It was into this tense environment that the oblivious Chris Jericho walked, in full, Fozzy rock band regalia. He wore black leather pants that were so tight it looked like he had four balls, and his platform boots looked like something off the clearance rack at a Halloween costume store. He donned a full shiny cape, and long, blonde hair extensions that hung down to his waist. The extensions obviously hadn't been put in by anyone who knew what they were doing- they hung in weird angles off of his head, were far too thin, and gave the disturbing impression that he was part of Dog the Bounty Hunter's sad, mulletted posse.

Jericho Z-snapped and gave the half-drunk editor a cocky grin, pausing for just a moment so she could take in the goods. She turned away from him and took another long, hard swig from the bottle.

The blonde man-beast swaggered onto the set. He didn't really care if he got the GQ cover or not; career-wise, it meant nothing to him. But those smelly a-holes out in the hallway were hanging all their hopes on it. It annoyed him, working in such close proximity to failure. The stink of desperation offended his tender nostrils. He would reclaim those nostrils. It was why he was here, and why he'd dressed to impress.

He would take the GQ cover from these pathetic retards, without even really trying.

Sven stared at the cape-wearing man before him. What was it with the capes today? Was it a wrestling thing? He sighed, wanting only to get this over with.

Jericho got into position. He put one foot in front of the other, and brought both arms up. His middle and ring fingers were folded down, allowing the pointer and pinky to stick straight up in the air. He was flashing his love for heavy metal at the camera.

Sven wondered why for a half a second, before realizing that he didn't care. He continued to shoot, giving no direction, knowing that none of the shots would be useable anyway. He snuck a couple shots of the superstar's leather-clad package, for his rapidly-growing "personal file". At least something good would come out of this.

In the back corner of the room, Katerina quietly vomited into a garbage can.

**(Note from the Esteemed Authors: Wanna see Jericho and his stupid cape? Check out BreakingFable's profile page!) **

* * * * * * *

The Big Show lumbered towards the set, keeping his gaze firmly ahead, trying his best to ignore the muttering, wide-eyed woman sitting hunched over in the corner. He stopped suddenly and stared, taking a good look at her ashen face. Wasn't that the editor of GQ?

"What in the shaved taint of Perseus happened to her?", he grumbled, plodding onward towards his destiny. He couldn't allow himself to be distracted. Not today. Too much was at stake.

It had just been a matter of a simple makeover.

Jericho had helped him pick out his outfit, which was simple, yet refined. He wore his black wrestling spandex as a shirt. If it was good enough for the ring, he figured, it was good enough for GQ. He wasn't worried about the camera picking up the yellow armpit stains. Gray dress pants that had been sewn together from three pairs of average-sized suit pants, covered his expansive bottom and legs, and his vast waist was adorned by a belt with a giant, sparkly buckle. A tiny, black top hat covered the crown of his huge, shiny head.

He was the picture of clownish refinement.

Sven didn't even know what to say, so he just gestured in the general area where he wanted the big man to go. The photographer took three rapid shots, and put his camera down. Big Show stared at him in confusion. "Thank you", he said frostily, "That'll be all."

"But-"

"Out!", retorted Sven angrily.

"Asshole", rumbled Big Show.

He farted _big_ on his way out.

**(From Your Literary Harbingers: Wanna see Big Show's idiotic belt? Wanna see what his spandex top would look like with suit pants? Then head over to BreakingFable's profile and click the link!)**

* * * * * * *

Sven needed a break. He looked around for Katerina to let her know he was taking off for a few minutes to clear his head. "Where is that dyke bitch?" he muttered to himself as he headed towards the exit on the far side of the room. He couldn't find her because she was passed out in a puddle of her own pee underneath the clothing rack.

"Oh well," he thought. He needed a break and was going to _take_ a fucking break.

He headed out into the hallway, the same hallway that was serving as the wrestlers' "green room".

"Holy mother of Christ!" Sven said as he rushed to cover his nose and mouth with his hand. A pungent waft of crushed animal ass and shit pits assaulted his nose, with the raging force of a Bon Jovi blaze of glory. "Oh dear Jesus," he mumbled to himself. "These fuckers stink like a gaggle of geese rolled in piss!"

Sven decided then and there that his break was over and ran back to the safety of the photoshoot. No amount of fat, ugly wrestlers in ill-fitting capes and spandex could be worse than the stink of that hallway.

"Next, please!" he shouted. Sven shivered as his soul quietly wept.

* * * * * * *

John Morrison sauntered into the room, fully aware that he was flaming hot. He was up all night practicing his poses for the shoot, employing all of the sassy techniques from his previous profession. Not many people knew that he used to be a featured dancer at Monkey's Paradise, an upscale strip club in the heart of Detroit. His stage name was Juan Carlo de Montegro and he wore jockey shorts made of young lamb's wool. He smiled at the memories.

He was wearing the same shorts today, actually. The wool had yellowed a bit and smelled of moth balls and hamburgers, but while shopping at Kmart yesterday, he found the perfect accompaniment – a pair of yellow, fuzzy Ugg boots. And they had been on sale!

He finished off his winning look with a black tuxedo bowtie, wrapping it around his slender neck like a ribbon on a present for the world. Luckily, the world couldn't tell he had to glue the bowtie onto his skin because the clasp had fallen off.

Sven could almost not bare to look up at his next subject. His heart simply couldn't take much more.

The photographer raised his head slowly, bracing for hell. But, what was this? A man, a glowing man with diamond abs appeared before him. A glowing man with diamond abs and a lambs wool diaper stood there, posing as if he had been born to do so.

Sven pinched himself to make sure he hadn't fallen asleep or died.

"Why, hello!" the Swedish queen greeted, a bit too enthusiastically. The horrors of the day washed away as he consoled himself with the knowledge that his personal collection would be greatly enhanced by the end of this shoot.

The tanned man in the fuzzy diaper didn't say a word. He only posed, and posed, and posed.

And Sven was happy once again.

**(A Note From Those Who Are Writing This Story: We know you wanna see Morrison's fine ass! So head on over to BreakingFable's profile page, and click on the link! You can't miss him. ;) )**

* * * * * * *

Sven knew heaven wouldn't last long.

CM Punk stood under the lights, arms crossed, greasy hair hanging over the heavy, dark bags of his eyes.

"So man," he said in a grim tone. "You straight-edge?"

Sven didn't know quite how to respond. "What the fuck is 'straight-edge'?" he thought to himself.

"Umm…sure. Yah," he answered, hoping the hairy beast in front of him would be satisfied and continue in silence.

"Oh, cool man," Punk said in a congratulatory manner. "I'm King of the straight-edgers. I'm neat."

Sven didn't reply, pretending to be engrossed in his work. His eyes were focused on the wet, matted hair on his subject's legs and the large "STRAIGHT EDGE" tattoo on his doughy stomach.

The unpleasant wrestler was wearing a neon pink string bikini bottom, and he had painted a giant X on his body, that ran from his shoulders to below his knees. It was quite a sight. Sven marveled at how he got the paint to stick to his sweaty skin and body hair. If pigs had human brothers, this would be one of them.

Sven couldn't wait to get back to the hotel tonight to wash away the sins of the day. He would vomit until the images became one with the toilet.

**(From Us, To You: We're not sure why you'd ever wanna see Punk in a string bikini, but if you wanna brave it, come on over to BreakingFable's profile page and click that link!)**

* * * * * * *

Sven sat cross-legged in the middle of the room, glaring at the door. He wasn't sure, but he thought all the sweaty fart machines outside in the hall had finally left.

Sighing, he got to his feet, walking towards his equipment. He let his bloodshot, weary eyes roam the sizeable room, surveying the damage that had been done throughout the course of the day. Over half of his crew had left, leaving him without lighting and technical people.

He didn't blame them at all.

As he began to sort through the pictures on his digital camera, he winced. There was nothing here. None of these pigs deserved the cover. If she were conscious, Katerina would agree.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door, causing the Swedish man to jump and glare at the offending portal.

"Ya?", he yelled, his tone a bit more manic than he would have liked.

A young man poked his head into the room, looking around with hesitant eyes.

"Well?", Sven said, "What is it?" His voice was nearly an octave higher than usual, and his taint was soaked with the sweat of a thousand hells.

"Um, hi", said the younger man, stepping into the room and glancing around, "Sorry I'm late, but I wasn't actually signed up for this. McMahon called me about an hour ago and told me to come over and take a few shots with you, so here I am. Name's Jeff Hardy."

Sven looked appreciatively at Jeff Hardy. His pleasantly slim build had been stuffed into baggy jeans and a tight wife-beater. He had a strange, ripped-up stocking on one of his arms. His long hair hung to his shoulders, and was dyed a multitude of colors.

Sven shook his head. He was attired like a common pimp, or a filthy street-rat. Oh, well. He'd seen far worse go through this room today.

"Stand over there, pose, and I'll shoot you", Sven sighed mournfully.

"Whatever", Jeff said, shrugging. He stood under the lighting array.

Sven began taking pictures of the younger man. The photographer found that he was pleasantly surprised as the shoot went on. There were no retarded poses. No idiotic outfits to speak of. No fat rolls, or butter-feet. There was just a good-looking wrestler, who took _really_ good pictures.

Sven immediately perked up when he saw the results he was getting from Jeff.

The young Hardy stood with his hands in his pockets, staring off to the side, into the corner of the room. Katerina had passed out there an hour ago.

"Um, isn't that the editor?", Jeff asked.

"Yah, whatever", Sven replied dismissively, "She's fine. Can I get you down on all fours, by any chance? It'll be really artsy. It'll up your chances of getting the cover, too." The photographer grinned lasciviously.

Jeff looked at him incredulously. "Um- Gotta go, man."

"Oh, come on. You don't mind staying a little longer, yes? Take a few more shots for poor Sven?" The Swedish photographer sounded desperate.

"Sorry, man", Jeff said firmly, "But it's time for me to take my afternoon dump. And when we Hardys feel the call of nature we must answer without delay, or pay heavy consequences."

Sven watched Jeff's tiny ass sway back and forth as he walked away. He felt drool wetting his chin, and swiped it away with the back of his hand.

Suddenly, things were looking up for this cover.

Humming "Footloose" to himself, the Swedish man moved to rouse his unconscious crew members, who were scattered about the room in a drunken conglomeration. He kicked ball sacs and flicked eyelids, all to the beat of the happy pop-dance tune. "Wake up, bitch tits!", he cried in his piercing, nasal voice. In one shadowy corner of the room, Katerina rolled over, peed again, and fell back to sleep.

Sven grinned happily. He had a vision. They would make Jeff Hardy into a GQ cover model. They would dye his hair, put him in a suit. Teach him how to pose.

The grin faded as he thought about Jeff's awkward mannerisms, the way he'd shoved his hands into the pockets of his overlarge jeans as he posed. That wouldn't fly at all, not for the cover of the most prestigious men's magazine in all the world.

Sven sighed, and rubbed at his forehead in an effort to stave off a rapidly-growing headache.

They had an awful lot of work to do.

* * * * * * *

Jerry the King Lawler pranced up to Gladys, Vince McMahon's secretary. The beet-red announcer smiled broadly at the elderly woman, who sat behind her scrupulously organized desk with the posture of a giraffe with palsy.

"May I help you?", she asked, her voice quivering like the cellulite on Mickie James' ass.

"Hey there, sweetheart, is Vinnie Mac in?", greeted King. A fart slipped out of his bumcrack, silent but deadly. "I wanna show him my new t-shirt idea." He lovingly pawed at the bright purple, bedazzled shirt that he was currently donning.

Gladys glanced briefly at the merchandise, reading the words "The King Will Crown Your BumHole!" emblazoned across the front. She would never understand these wrestlers.

"I'm afraid Mr. McMahon is in a meeting right now", she replied, "He's unavailable. You'll have to try back later."

"Oh", King's face fell, "Okay. Guess I'll be back, then." He walked away, disappointed.

Gladys watched him go, her cold eyes never leaving his bright purple back. Mr. McMahon had asked not to be disturbed today. She'd ensure that his orders were carried out.

Inside the dark office, Vince sat, staring up at his flat-screen TV with wide eyes. He hugged himself as if he were cold. The chairman rocked, back and forth, back and forth.

Too much stress. Too much.

Vince was watching Barney, the Purple Dinosaur. "I love you, you love me." He cried every time that fat purple fuck began singing his signature song.

The chairman of the WWE was sitting cross-legged on the floor of his office, watching cartoons, as he always did when the stress became too much. He'd pulled out his special birthday-boy party hat this time. It had a picture of Spongebob on it, and streamers coming out of the top.

"I love you", Vince muttered in his rough voice, "You love me. We're a happy family…"

Tears began to slide down McMahon's cheek.

Tears of pain. Tears of joy.

And tears of steroid overdoses.

**What will Jeff do when he finds out he's the winner? How will Matt react to the news? What about the other wrestlers? Will McMahon recover from his Barney-induced funk? And what about poor Sven and Katerina? Will they ever be the same after this? Keep reading to find out the answers to these questions, and more! **

**Pictures of the photoshoot can be found on BreakingFable's profile page.**

**Review! Review! Review! :)**


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